


Going To

by CaptainTulip



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTulip/pseuds/CaptainTulip
Summary: A night in the life of House and Wilson. Set during season 2.





	Going To

Wilson has his head in his hand. The other hand is clasped tightly around a large glass of amber coloured liquid. His eyes are closed, he's breathing deeply and his shoulders are tensed. None of the lights are on, and the television is off.  
  
"Whatcha doing?" House asks, limping slowly out of his bedroom, where he's been lying on his back for the past three hours, gazing up at the patterns on the ceiling.  
  
"Trying to cope," Wilson replies plainly, and House wrenches the fridge door open.  
  
"We need to get this damn thing fixed," he says, eyeing the side of the the door. He glances at Wilson, but Wilson hasn't moved.   
  
"I told you to call that guy," Wilson says, like he's barely keeping control of his voice. "I wrote down the phone number for you, all you had to do was just  _call_ -"  
  
"Oops, must have thrown the paper away," House says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "That's what happens when you insist on labelling everything, I get annoyed and start chucking them all in the trash -"  
  
"So everything that's mine becomes yours?"  
  
House snorts, and limps over to the couch. "Yeah, pity you don't have anything worth stealing, huh?"  
  
Wilson looks up at House, then. He stares at him a moment, before sighing deeply and looking away. "Yeah," he says, resigned.  
  
House frowns. "Oh, no. Don't tell me you're going all  _emo_ ," he sneers softly.  
  
Wilson shakes his head. "That word seems to be in fashion, lately, and I've yet to figure out what it means. As far as I can tell it's an insult for someone who allows themselves to exhibit any feelings-"  
  
"Haven't you heard? Cold and heartless is in."  
  
Wilson lifts his drink up to his mouth and takes a large sip. "So you're just following the fashion, I suppose."  
  
"You got it." House pops open his beer. "You got any gruesome stories you wanna share? Is your life an abyss, Wilson?"  
  
Wilson sighs again and downs the rest of his drink. "I think I'm going to go out," he says, and placing his glass on the sidetable by the couch, he stands up.  
  
"Where?" House retorts. Wilson picks invisible lint off himself and House rolls his eyes. "There's nothing  _out_  that you don't have here," House says, waving his hand vaguely around.  
  
"Maybe not," Wilson says and delves his hand into his pocket to make sure his keys are where he left them. "But there are things that insist upon hanging around  _here_  that aren't out  _there_." He raises an eyebrow at House, although he knows House isn't likely to misinterpret his badly executed subtlety.  
  
"Oh- _ho_ ," House says with a snort. "House, we have a problem-"  
  
"Is it so bad that I want some time to be alone?" Wilson interrupts him, and his voice is stilted and slightly hoarse, and almost like it's right on the precipice of tumbling down into something else. "To - to have a chance to think about life without someone constantly attacking everything I do, every move I make? Is it so bad that I want to go somewhere and relax and not have everything -  _criticised_?"  
  
House shakes his head. "Give me a few hours," he mutters, "and I'll be so smashed that I'll just be sitting here with a placid smile on my face like the rest of the world, and you'll be able to  _relax_  all you want. Sorry if I haven't yet crushed the last ounces of my personality -"  
  
"That's not  _it_ , House!" Wilson raises a hand to his forehead and rubs, absent-mindedly. "You seem to -" he paces forward, and then turns around, pacing back again. House watches him, his mouth slightly open, and Wilson takes a deep breath and turns to him with a frown on his face. "You seem to have come to the conclusion that all that's left of your personality is - is  _bastardness_ -"  
  
"That's not a word," House says in a sing-song voice.  
  
"Shut  _up_!" Wilson snaps, and House cocks his head, but says nothing. "You're always - talking about  _people_ , other people, being cardboard cutouts who couldn't develop a personality even if they - if personalities were contagious, about how they don't have any  _layers_ , but if you just spend...if you just spend your whole time being a complete  _bastard_ , then you've got less of a personality than anyone I've ever met!"  
  
House stares at him, his forehead creasing slightly. "So, now it's not that I've got too much personality, it's that I haven't got  _enough_? Talk about mixed signals, Jimmy -"  
  
"Look,  _here_ , right now - what is it you're trying to achieve? Annoying me?"  
  
House grinds his teeth. "What do you want me to say?" he snaps, and any traces of good humour are gone. "Do you want me to say I'll  _change_?" House spits. "That I'll start giving little kids lollipops and telling Cameron her hair looks nice today?" House pulls himself up from the couch to glare at Wilson. "Turn myself into a patronising clone -"  
  
Wilson clicks his tongue. "Being  _nice_  doesn't make you a clone, House-"  
  
"Yeah, it  _does_!" House roars. "And I don't even care if it doesn't because it makes me  _sick_ , and no one wants a sick doctor, do they?" House says, chucking his half empty beer can on the floor, and the dark liquid sloshes over the carpet. Wilson watches it sink into the fabric before taking a deep breath and running his hand through his hair.  
  
"Well, if you're  _sick_ ," he says delicately, "then maybe you should go to a doctor-"  
  
"Are you saying I need a shrink?" House interrupts, his voice sounding dangerous.  
  
"No," Wilson denies hastily, "I'm just -"  
  
"Because you better be damn careful about saying that, Jimmy, because  _that_  means you're saying you don't think my  _mind_  is sound, and people who don't have sound minds don't have normal reasoning processes, and you're pissing me off and I have a really large, metal tipped cane within reach -"  
  
"Yeah," Wilson scoffs, but he feels the hairs on the back of his neck go up just ever so slightly, "and there are knives in the kitchen -"  
  
"What're you saying? You're gonna  _kill_  me?"  
  
"What? No! I just -" Wilson stops, and grabs his head. "See?  _See_? This is what I'm talking about! I'm trying to have a normal conversation with you about our friendship -"  
  
"Our friendship? Gee, one minute you're about to murder me and the next we're the best of friends -"  
  
"Well,  _that's_  what it feels like sometimes."  
  
They stay standing on opposite sides of the couch, staring at each other, before House nods slowly. He turns around and lets himself flop into the soft pillows of the settee. "I'm just trying to cope," he quips, mimicking Wilson from earlier, and Wilson sighs.  
  
"Well, you're obviously not doing a very good job," he mutters.  
  
House snorts. "This coming from a man who drinks and fucks random women he picks up in bars to forget the -"  
  
"Maybe," Wilson says, trying to keep his voice level and stop his cheeks from going pink, "maybe if I had someone to  _talk_  to about my problems then I wouldn't need to - to deal with things in other ways. Because that's what normal people need, House, someone to talk to."  
  
"Normal people. Huh."  
  
"And I think that's what  _you_  need, too," Wilson says, trying to sound reasonable and not on attack. "I think you need to talk to someone about -"  
  
"I'm sorry if I can't compact all my "problems" down into little sentences to tell you about over dinner," House replies loudly.  
  
"Is that your problem?" Wilson asks, and it's almost to himself. He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're the only puzzle you can't figure out -"  
  
Wilson starts as House grabs his cane and smacks it loudly on the floor. "I am  _not_ ," House says, loudly and angrily, "some demented  _puzzle solver_ , and I get  _sick_  of morons trying to tell me that I am. I'm just doing my damn job. Do you want me to stop that?" House shakes his head. "You want me to - what, confess my sins? 'Admit that I have a problem'," House sneers, "and let all the patients die?"  
  
Wilson shrugs. "I don't know what you need to do, House," he says truthfully, "but you seem to have some - inequality inside yourself that you need to sort out."  
  
"And what if sorting it out means being a bastard?"   
  
Wilson stares at him. House grins, sarcastically, then frowns as he looks around for where he put his beer. "Then," Wilson begins slowly, and points to the beer seeping into the ground. House's gaze follows his finger, and he sighs when he remembers. Wilson shrugs and rubs his hand over his head, looking lost.   
  
"Then?" House prompts, looking smug.  
  
"Then," Wilson says, examining his fingernails, "then maybe you need to - let people see more of your personality. Let them peel back some layers."  
  
House wrinkles up his face. "You know what happens when you peel back the layers of an onion? People cry, and you find once you've peeled back all the layers, there's nothing left."  
  
"You're not an onion, House."  
  
"Yeah? You're right. I taste better."  
  
Wilson tries not to blush as House pushes himself up from the couch and limps over to the fridge. "Wanna beer?" House calls, and Wilson frowns. "We can talk," soon follows, and it's the probably the least sarcastic voice House could manage with that phrase.  
  
"I -" Wilson hesitates, and runs his fingers over the keys and the condom in his pocket. House limps back in, holding a beer in each hand and an expectant look on his face. He gestures to the beer, and Wilson sighs, and nods slowly.   
  
"Sure," he murmurs.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"I think I'm going to be sick," Wilson gasps, lying on his back on the carpeted floor.  
  
"Gonna," House shoots back, and Wilson shakes his head.  
  
"What?" he asks, confused.  
  
" _Gonna_  be sick. No one says 'going to' when they're wasted, where'd you grow up?"  
  
"Oh,  _sorry_  if I'm - not yet ac...ac..."  
  
"Acquainted?"  
  
"Shut up," Wilson mutters, and House snorts.  
  
"Lightweight," he sneers, and Wilson tries to grab hold of the couch to sit up.  
  
"I am  _not_ ," he protests, hauling himself up. "I just - haven't had enough to eat, so it's all..."  
  
"Oh, ok." House chuckles a little. "Want me to fry you up some eggs?"  
  
Wilson winces, and grabs his stomach. "God, no," he breathes.  
  
"Told you," House murmurs.  
  
"Hey, I've had -  _way_  more than you have -"  
  
"Oh, so now it's a competition? You're on, Jimmy -"  
  
"No, please - no more."  
  
" _Ha_. I win. I win at everything -"  
  
"No, you don't. I won - I won that poker tournament -"  
  
House snorts. "I wasn't even playing!"  
  
"Face it,  _Greg_. You wouldn't have won even if you  _were_  playing." Wilson looks smug.  
  
"Not sure I would have wanted to play." House taps his chin with his finger clumsily. "What was it you said? I  _licked_  his ass?"  
  
Wilson blushes and tries to pull himself up on the couch next to House. "I didn't - you're just -"  
  
"Nope. I'm not."  
  
Wilson finally manages to launch himself up onto the couch, and promptly flops over to the side, his head resting on House's shoulder. "Mmmmph," he says lazily, and House stares down at him, distastefully, even though no one is looking.   
  
"I'm sorry, I don't speak  _shit-faced_ ," House says sarcastically, and Wilson snorts into House's T-shirt.  
  
"I'd win if we - if we played gay chicken," Wilson mutters. "I was - the best at my school -"  
  
House blinks. "What?" he says, carefully.  
  
"None of the other guys - and then I'd -"  
  
House stares down at him. "You'd what?"  
  
"I'd  _win_."  
  
House shakes his head, and gently tries to pry Wilson off his shoulder. "You never lost?" he asks, as he tries to move Wilson's head to the other side of the couch.  
  
"Nah," Wilson murmurs. "We used to draw sometimes."  
  
House stops for a moment, thinking. "Draw," he says. Then he snorts. "I think if you draw then it's just called 'gay'."  
  
"No," Wilson protests, turning his head to look at House. "I'm not -"  
  
"I didn't say anything," House says, raising up his hands. They look at each other, and the corners of House's lips twitch.  
  
Wilson groans. "I'm going to regret saying that tomorrow."  
  
"Gonna," House mutters, and Wilson buries his head in his hands.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Shhhh," Wilson clumsily whispers. He is settled on top of House, and he isn't quite sure how he got there.  
  
"What the...Wilson?" House mutters. "What're you -"  
  
"Shhhh," Wilson repeats. He fumbles slightly, and suddenly House's pants are being pulled down.  
  
" _Shit_ , Wilson, what -"  
  
"Told you to shh, House -" Wilson says into House's ear. "Just leave it, and it'll....it'll be fine."  
  
House's mouth opens to retort, and suddenly snaps shut when Wilson's fingers close around his cock. "Is this...gay chicken?" he tries to joke.  
  
"Shush," Wilson says, and shoving his other hand between their bodies he grabs hold of his own cock too. "I don't know," he says, breathing his sick breath all over House's face, "what - what I'm doing -"  
  
A gurgled sort of groan vibrates in House's throat, and he sucks in a breath. "Your breath stinks," House mutters, and Wilson laughs softly.  
  
"So does yours," he replies, and then gives a muffled moan. "House," he says harshly, "could you...?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Wilson shakes his head, and a shudder goes through his body. He takes his hand away from his cock and reaches over to grab House's hand, that is clenched into one of the pillows on the couch. Wilson pries it away and moves it to wrap it around his own cock. "God, House..." Wilson gasps, and House's mouth falls open. He starts moving his hand faster, and Wilson's hand speeds up, too.  
  
"You -" Wilson starts to say.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Wilson shakes his head, and starts thrusting in earnest into House's hand. "Your hands," he grunts, "your hands are so rough -"  
  
"Yours aren't exactly a baby's bottom," House says, gruffly, and Wilson gasps.  
  
"I - I like it," Wilson whispers. "Is that - is that -"  
  
"Shut up," House says sharply. "Or you'll - say something that you wish you -"  
  
Wilson groans loudly. "Shit, House," he says desperately, "I'm going to -"  
  
"Gonna?" House says into Wilson's ear.  
  
"Greg, I -"  
  
A gasp escapes House's throat, and Wilson groans and comes into House's hand.  
  
  


* * *

  
Wilson cracks open an eye.  
  
"Don't say anything," House calls from the kitchen.  
  
Wilson frowns, and sits up. He rubs his head and winces. "How'd you know I was up?" he calls.  
  
"I can feel you thinking," House replies. "You have  _the_  loudest cogs this side of the country."  
  
Wilson opens his mouth. Then he closes it and looks around. He looks down at his pants, which are still open, and splutters. He closes them quickly, looking around guiltily though he knows no one else could be there, and takes a deep breath, feeling decidedly awkward. He's glad House is in the kitchen.  
  
"I'm gonna have a shower," he calls to House.  _Going to_ , he corrects mentally.  
  
"You need one."  
  
Wilson sighs. "Thanks, House."  
  
"Any time." 


End file.
